


We Share The Same Cold Meal

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Anger, Bitterness, Developing Relationship, Doctors & Physicians, Emotional Baggage, Gen, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 08:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: The first few weeks where you and Ratchet share a shift in the medbay pass in stiff, frosty silence. You don’t want to be here and he doesn’t want you to be here. You speak when it’s necessary to do your jobs. Neither of you needs assistanceorsupervision, so you don’t speak often. That suits you. You suppose it suits Ratchet as well.





	We Share The Same Cold Meal

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for one passing reference to a past noncon/dubcon situation
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/181539924526/we-share-the-same-cold-meal-spockandawe-the)

The first few weeks where you and Ratchet share a shift in the medbay pass in stiff, frosty silence. You don’t want to be here and he doesn’t want you to be here. You speak when it’s necessary to do your jobs. Neither of you needs assistance _or_ supervision, so you don’t speak often. That suits you. You suppose it suits Ratchet as well.

You think it would suit you _better_ to work your shifts on your own, or with any of the other medics on board the ship, but the one time you bring it up, Ratchet tells you in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t trust you by yourself, he doesn’t trust you with someone as young and inexperienced as Velocity, and _under no circumstances_ will he even _consider_ asking First Aid to work a shift with you.

He speaks to you even less after that. That’s perfectly fine with you. He still refuses to release anyone from your care until after carrying out a final medical scan of his own, but now whenever he shoves his way in and interferes with your patients, you take a seat and lean back in your chair, relaxed, legs crossed, smiling faintly as you watch him. You shrug helplessly when your patients give you confused looks and smile even wider in the way you know people find charming. Ratchet never finds anything wrong with them. Of _course_ he doesn’t. Your work is flawless.

It does, perhaps, irritate you that he continues to check each and every one of your patients, no matter how many times his scans come back clean, no matter how obvious it is you have nothing to gain from mistreating them.

It irritates you that he never bothers to consider _who_ ordered you to harvest organs from your deceased patients, or _why_ you eventually resorted to killing them yourself.

No, silence suits you very well indeed.

That silence lasts until Deadlock decides that he’s too impatient to wait for Ratchet’s shifts to end, and begins invading the medbay on a near-daily basis. It lasts until you learn that Ratchet is apparently so smitten that he’ll let Deadlock _stay._

The silence stops being _silence_ when it’s constantly interrupted by the quiet background conversation between the two of them, where you can avoid looking at their body language all you want, you can stay far enough away to avoid brushing up against their fields, but the low, affectionate murmuring between them is inescapable.

Deadlock doesn’t like you.

 _That_ amuses you, knowing that ultimately it was your work that saved his life. Even beyond the rust plague, knowing that since your requests for support from Autobot central command were never answered, if not for your efforts with Tarn, he would have arrived on Delphi as a notorious ex-Decepticon knocking on the doors of a facility controlled by the DJD.

It’s unspeakably amusing, thinking of the ways Ratchet would have never been able to have him like this without the assistance you provided, however unwittingly.

Still, that amusement isn’t enough to undo the irritation of Deadlock’s presence. The inescapable murmuring between him and Ratchet is bad enough on its own, but the way he bristles protectively any time you draw near, his field flaring out sharp and belligerent— The way he never _stops_ doing that, the way he never stops watching you (without ever bothering to hide his suspicion), the way he never stops moving to position himself between you and Ratchet—

When you’ve spent months on this wretched ship, a prisoner in all but name, doing nothing but your _job,_ that does begin to grate. You keep the sour note out of your field, because you refuse to give Deadlock that sort of satisfaction. Any mech who lived through the war is aware of _his_ history, aware of the millions of years he spent reveling in death and carnage. Aware that it’s only been a few scant years since he decided that all that history was only an unfortunate mistake, and it’s all _behind_ him now.

You’ve treated more than a few Decepticons who begged you to kill them when they learned what planet they were on. You saw the way Deadlock reacted when he thought the DJD might descend upon your facility. You’ve spent millions of years _saving_ lives, in direct contrast to the way Deadlock preferred to spend his time. But it’s so convenient for him to judge you on the basis of what you were eventually reduced to, and weight your unremarkable little death count above his own extensive history, or the history of the mechs on this ship he considers his _friends_.

And you don’t pick that fight with him. The longer this situation lasts, the more you want to do it. The longer he and Ratchet watch you with undisguised suspicion, expecting you to begin wholesale unprovoked slaughter of your patients, the more you want to do it. But even though being kept aboard this ship is a punishment for you, you are very bitterly aware of how few Cybertronians would be willing to take you in at all these days, and that this is a better prison than you could expect to find anywhere else.

Still. One day, Deadlock has again wandered into your medbay to distract Ratchet while he’s on duty. And you’re forced to endure their conversation, but are _also_ being forced to endure the quieter whispering and unsubtle sideways glances that mean they’re likely discussing _you._

You don’t have patients to occupy you. There’s nothing else to keep you busy. You categorically refuse to let them drive you from your own workplace. But you also refuse to put up with this.

After several kliks with no reprieve in sight, you loudly interrupt whatever they’re saying with, “That’s an interesting sword you have.”

As expected, from the moment the words leave your mouth, Deadlock is in position between you and Ratchet’s chair, one hand reaching back to keep Ratchet in place, the other hand halfway to one of his knives. And then he bothers to process your actual words. He’s still in position to shield Ratchet from the _dreadful_ violence you must be planning to inflict on him, but the confusion on his face is terribly obvious.

You add, “I noticed the circuitry on the hilt. It seems robust. I assume those power circuits continue out through the blade as well?”

Now he straightens, puffing up with pride that’s as obvious as his confusion was. “Yes, it’s a design developed by the warriors of the Circle of Light—”

You’re aware. You were more interested in the medical tech on Luna 1 rather than the weapons confiscated from Tyrest’s little enclave of test subjects, but even if the sword was completely new to you, the basic principles would still be apparent. You lean one elbow on your desk and prop your chin on your hand as Deadlock talks about how he became involved with the Circle.

“—belonged to… a friend. But after he— Afterwards. Dai Atlas told me to take the sword, to remind me of everything I learned with them.”

“Your friend died, I take it.”

That doesn’t get you much of an answer. You didn’t need one. Ratchet is frowning at you from behind Deadlock. You have no interest in taking that hint.

“And now Dai Atlas is dead too. There isn’t much of the Circle left, is there.” You pause for effect. “Unfortunate how they experienced all those losses after you fell in with them.”

You’re watching closely enough to see the way Deadlock has to suppress a flinch. The pride all drains out of him, and you can just imagine how much shame you’d feel in his field if you cared to get close enough to sample it.

Ratchet’s voice is sharp. “Pharma.”

“Oh, no _offense_ meant, I’m _sure.”_ You press a hand to your chest, all dismay. “I’d only been thinking that it was so interesting that you and I both fell into company with such notorious Decepticons as the war came to an end. Isn’t that fascinating?”

He pushes his chair back from his desk, though he doesn’t stand. Deadlock is still standing frozen, but Ratchet is acknowledging you now. His focus is on you, and you’re not going to waste that opportunity.

When he doesn’t say anything, you continue. “Deadlock and Tarn! Who would have thought?”

“His name is Drift,” says Ratchet.

Privately, you roll your optics. Outwardly, you ignore him. “And not just being acquainted with them either. Who would have imagined, just think of _us,_ longtime Autobots, getting so… _intimate_ with two of the most well-known Decepticon fanatics. Two mechs known for brutally killing any Autobot unlucky enough to encounter them. And yet here we are.”

You can practically taste the shame rolling off Deadlock.

“Let’s not,” Ratchet says, his voice carefully even. He raises a hand and rests it on Deadlock’s back, just above his waist.

“What shouldn’t we do? You really should be more clear when you speak, you know. But it _is_ fascinating that both of us would have gotten so lucky at the same time. And I do mean _intimate_ in more way than one, of course.” You laugh, forcing your voice to stay light. “I’m sure you’ve had Deadlock’s hands _all_ over your frame by now. And Tarn, yes— But I’m sure your experience must have been _much_ more consensual—”

“That’s _enough,”_ Ratchet snaps.

You smile at him, letting nothing show on your face beyond casual, detached amusement. You force the tension from your frame, keep anything from showing in your field. Ratchet gets _nothing_ private from you. He doesn’t _deserve_ to know.

He continues, “What is this about, Pharma?”

“About? Come, Ratchet, I know you don’t care for the social niceties, but you do know what small talk is.”

“Tell me what this is about. Is this still about the hands?” He sighs and tilts his head back, raising his optics to the heavens in that way he does when he wants you to feel _particularly_ ashamed of what you’re doing. “Take them back, then. I don’t care.”

Your fuel tank turns, and it’s a struggle not to let it show on your face.

 _Hands._ If that was an option, it would have been the first thing you took care of on Luna 1.

“For all I know, you’ve wired them to explode,” you echo, letting your voice drip with insincerity.

He frowns. “Pharma.”

You pause, waiting for Ratchet to challenge the idea that it might be explosives holding you back from taking your hands from him. It’s a hilariously idiotic argument. You were wartime medics together for millions of years, if he thinks you sincerely can’t scan a body for explosives, there’s no hope for him. But that response never comes.

“I have better hands than anyone could ever hope to be forged with,” you say, because perhaps if you repeat it enough times, you’ll start to believe that it’s true. You lift the hand you aren’t leaning on, letting its shape slip away from you. It slides through other shapes, _familiar_ shapes, ones you don’t have to think hard about, medical instruments, surgical tools— And when you start to feel ill and can’t stand any more, you force it back into the shape of a hand. “What more could I want?”

And the one time you tried to remove one— Whatever this is, it’s not just _hands,_ when you lift the plating of your arm, there’s something that looks like circuitry—but _isn’t—_ running from your wrists all the way up through your internals, rooting in your spark. You don’t know how to remove it. You don’t know if it _can_ be removed. It isn’t Cybertronian. You cut off one hand yourself, hoping to work on the rest of it later, but by the next morning, that hand had grown back. It makes you feel ill to think about, and you haven’t opened your plating again since then.

Ratchet is still frowning at you. You hold tight to your control over your frame and field, keep that faint smile on your face. “Besides,” you repeat, openly mocking now, “for all I know you’ve rigged them to explode.”

He doesn’t pick it up this time either. You’re angry, you think. And perhaps a little hurt, down deep enough that you’ll never show him. You know him so very well, and he apparently doesn’t know you at all.

Deadlock turns just enough towards Ratchet to take Ratchet’s hand in his. You watch them, your smile not budging. You can’t resist adding. “And just think of all the other good I was able to do with these. I do notice that you didn’t hesitate to add my work to your medbay.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m flattered, Ratchet! _Truly,_ I am. Why, just think. Without my work on Luna 1, Minimus Ambus would never have been saved. I hear you were able to leverage my work to save a patient with late-stage cybercrosis. And Velocity was able to build on the work I did studying abnormal spark activity to make some fascinating new advancements. In fact, I think she and I should write a paper together.” You let your smile grow wider. “Just imagine where you’d be without me.”

 _That_ is enough to spur Deadlock into engaging again. “You mean apart from the way you tried to kill us?”

Ratchet tries to wave him off, but it’s too late.

“Do forgive me,” you say. “I’ve been neglecting you.”

 _“Don’t,”_ Ratchet snaps.

Deadlock turns slightly to him without ever quite taking his optics off you. “I’m not afraid of _him,”_ he says.

Your smile doesn’t waver. “You know, it occurs to me that I have some information that might interest you. After all, you’ve only been closely acquainted with Ratchet for the last few years, but I’ve known him for much longer, and I do have a number of entertaining stories about him I imagine you’d enjoy.”

He isn’t completely lacking in common sense. He still looks wary, and he doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t quite manage to hide a flicker of interest.

“Oh, _Ratchet,”_ you say, looking at him. “Where do I even begin?”

“You don’t begin,” he growls. “Drift, we—”

You laugh. “I’ve got it, the first major battle on Luna 2. I _know_ you’ll want to hear this one. That was a short fight, but it was certainly a brutal one. Field medics were typically assigned in pairs in those days, and Ratchet, you and I always did work well together, didn’t we.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Ratchet insisted on going as close to the front lines as possible, of course.” You make optic contact with Deadlock. “I’m sure you’ve noticed, it’s _just_ like him.”

Deadlock almost smiles and starts to nod before he cuts himself off. Ratchet’s hand is tight on his, but Deadlock is still listening to you.

“As you might expect, he took some damage. A gunshot to the chest, very nearly fatal. I had to stabilize his spark, but that close to the front, every mech who could stand was needed in the fight and none of the ones with _us_ were in any state to be providing life support. I had to patch him into my own systems to stabilize him, all while wondering if our position was about to be overrun.” You laugh. “Just imagine. Ratchet unconscious and on the edge of going offline, _both_ of us with our chest plates open and a jury-rigged splice between our sparks, while I tried to carry him between the other casualties and treat them too.”

You sigh, filling your face and field with deliberate fondness over _cherished_ old memories. “I wasn’t sure either of us was going to make it to the end of that fight. Do you remember, Ratchet? That was when Decepticons were making a _particular_ point of taking out medics and hospitals. And there we both were with the paint jobs to mark us out as targets.”

Then you pause. All innocent curiosity, you ask, “Were you on Luna 2, Deadlock?”

“That’s _enough!”_ Ratchet shoves up to his feet.

And it is enough. You sit back in your chair, smiling. You’ve accomplished what you wanted to accomplish. You don’t even know whether Deadlock was on Luna 2, though judging by his reaction, you’d say he was. He’s frozen, and even from this distance, you can feel the flood of shame and horror in his field. It’s unlikely that he was the one who shot Ratchet, even if anyone could answer that question this long after the fact. But it’s _possible._ And he knows it. That’s all you needed.

You turn away from the two of them, back to your own desk, dialing down your audials and burying yourself in meaningless paperwork. Every so often, you can feel someone walking behind you, if only in the glancing brush of a field against yours or the way the floor vibrates with their footsteps. You ignore it all. You’re so _terribly_ focused on your job, you see.

Before the end of your shift, you receive a ping notifying you that you’ll be serving a new duty shift, effective immediately. First Aid and Ratchet will be working together, and you’ll be working with Velocity. You dismiss the alert and allow yourself a private smile. You can’t quite decide whether disappointment or satisfaction weighs more strongly in your thoughts, but all things considered, you don’t think you have any choice but to consider this a victory.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/181539924526/we-share-the-same-cold-meal-spockandawe-the)


End file.
